


a chance of overtime, say, my place at nine

by folkloricfeel



Category: One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkloricfeel/pseuds/folkloricfeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis' found his soulmate, and everything's splendid except for a few small issues: he's never met him, only spoken to him once, and only knows him by the sound of his voice, which he'll probably never hear again. But other than that, everything's working out just fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a chance of overtime, say, my place at nine

**Author's Note:**

> AU in which Louis works for a theater box office and hates it, Harry is a good friend for Liam and Zayn's anniversary, and Niall's a smartass who's just worried his roommate's lusting over an ugly ninety-year-old with phone-transmittable gonorrhea. It is, in fact, as silly as it sounds. Title and cut-text lyrics taken from "Step Into My Office Baby" by Belle and Sebastian.

Louis hates his job.

Hates it, hates it, _hatesithatesithatesit_ with a burning passion. Positively loathes it. So much so that he'd make a voodoo doll for it and spend his shifts sticking pushpins from the supply drawer into it in the most painful manner possible, if he could figure out how to make voodoo dolls in the shape of places of employment, which he can't, which means he'll have to just suffice with the ones for all of his coworkers, sadly. He's doing almost-exactly what he wants to be doing with his life, nearly-close to utilizing his college education, in a just-this-far-from-perfect place, and he is utterly, one-hundred-percent miserable every damn day of it.

Because, the problem is, he's one elevator ride and one small flight of stairs up from the lobby away from what he wants to be doing. On one end of that elevator and those stairs, there is a stage, a beautiful, glorious, Broadway-regulation stage with spotlights that filter in every color of the rainbow and microphones that blend perfectly into your hairline and skin tone, and on his end, there is a fucking boring little gray room with a telephone and an outdated computer that gets grumpy when you try to run any programs alongside Excel or Access. He went through four years of school to have a piece of paper in his hand that says he's BFA-certified in musical theater, and all he's got to show for it thus far is a ticket-taking job. Ticket-taking.

(All right, his official title is "box office manager," but it's a lie, because he doesn't actually get to manage anything but the phone lines and the will call box. He does, however, get to show up at nine every morning and eat his lunch out of a bag or a box in the tackily-painted kitchenette in the break room at precisely twelve o'clock and stay until the clock clicks over from 4:59. He does get to sacrifice at least half of his weekends standing in an even smaller little box of a room in between the two sets of doors at the theater's main entrance, often freezing his ass off from all of the people coming through and letting the draft in, asking elderly arts patrons for their last names and handing them little while envelopes in return. He does get to shuffle through that will call box for last names that don't exist and occasionally get yelled at for it when he pulls a superior and finds out that the temp who works with him on Thursday afternoons spelled things wrong by one letter off, of course.

Perhaps that's why they call it a box office.

Because his entire life has become a series of events shuffling him from one tiny little gray box into the next, until the boxes shrink so much he might die of claustrophobia.

He tries to explain the misery of all of this to Niall sometimes after work, tries to elaborate on the aptness of his witty metaphor and convey the scope of his frustration, but Niall usually just gives him a confused look from his place on their living room couch and asks him to pass the remote.)

In summary: his job sucks, and his life sucks, and he has no clue how the rest of the world's population does this "proper work" business because he could not feel more suffocated sitting in the little room he calls his home thirty-two hours a week.

He doesn't get paid enough for all this grayness. Not enough at all, if you ask him.

Louis sighs exasperatedly as he sinks into his swivel chair, not that there's anyone actually around to benefit from the sound of it, given that most of his coworkers don't bother to show up until at least ten or eleven o'clock—arts people—and that his office is isolated enough from the rest of the offices to sufficiently starve him of human contact, but it's still worth the gesture, thought-that-counts and all. He rolls up to his desk, yells at his voicemail light to stop blinking because he can, and then puts the phone on speaker to clear the thing off. Nine messages greet him: three ticket inquiries for the touring production of Miss Saigon that goes up Wednesday, two hangups, one question about if it's too late to refund season tickets (considering that they've only got one more show on the bill left after this, the answer is probably yes), an angry patron who wants their money back for the Rat Pack tribute show because no one told them that the handicapped seating would have an obstructed view, a misdirected call for the youth theater program producer, and an inquiry from his boss about whether he can pick up the Thursday night performances for the run of said Miss Saigon. Why, of course he can, he grumbles as he scrawls down phone numbers, it's not like he's got anything better to do with the Thursday nights in October or for the rest of his life other than to _sell his soul and firstborn child_ to this place, after all.

He's in the middle of leaving a voicemail for the season ticket refund person when his second line lights up.

He finishes up giving the person his supervisor's number and clicks over with a sigh.

"Hello, you've reached the Cowell Center for Performing Arts box office association, this is Louis, how can I help you?" he recites on instinct, probably sounding too dry and annoyed for a customer service job like his, but he cannot actually bring himself to care.

"Um, hello, is this where you get the tickets and stuff?" The voice on the other end of the line piques his attention, because said voice sounds young, male, and with a low rasp in it that piques other things to attention in him, too.

"It is," Louis says, swiveling to put his feet up on the desk, since he's all alone, "what show were you interested in?"

"I haven't got any idea," the voice says, and that's a little unexpected, given all the arts patron and stage mom types he usually talks to on the phone, "what ones've you got?"

"Miss Saigon and Phantom, if you're looking at this season," he says, pulling up the Access database for the current season bill, "but our 2013 season bill just went on sale to the general public last week, so I can run you down the list of those, too, if you want."

"Um," the voice says again, sounding adorably clueless and confused, "Phantom, is that the one with the French Revolution? Where they sing in the tavern? Or what one is that," the voice trails off, and Louis wonders if he's as cute in person as he sounds over the phone.

"Ah, so close," Louis says, crossing one leg over the other and twirling his phone cord around his index finger, "I think you're thinking of Les Miserables." The voice makes a little sound of recognition. "Phantom's the one with the chandelier and the funny-looking fellow in the mask, _think of me, think of me fondly_ , that one?"

"Oh," the voice says, then pauses. "You've got a pretty swell voice." Another pause. "I mean."

"Thanks," Louis says, biting back the _your voice makes me swell, too_ that he'd offer if he weren't at work, where flirting with the clientele would probably be frowned upon by Paul for some odd reason. "Did you want me to pull up a particular night for Phantom to look at seating? We're selling pretty fast for that show, but I can probably accommodate you."

"Oh," the voice says, and all of its one-syllable soundbytes are like delicious little nuggets that Louis wants more and more of, like those fun-size candy bars you can't stop eating until you've run straight through the whole bag. "When is that, anyway?"

"Well," Louis says, grabbing for the season brochure on his desk even though knows these things by heart by now, "it opens the first of November and runs every night but Monday for two and a half weeks," he starts flipping through the pages to give himself something to do with his hands, "plus there's matinees on Saturday, Sunday, and the last Wednesday if you've got a group of more than twenty students with you, but I doubt someone like yourself has that many kids on hand, unless you've been a busy, busy boy."

Another pause, and when the voice comes back in, Louis thinks it's what a blush must sound like through a phone cord. "No, I don't have any—it's for my friends, the tickets aren't even for me," the voice says.

"Very generous of you," Louis nods. "I'm sure they'll enjoy appreciate whatever you decide on, we bring in the top national touring circuits for our season bill." It's a bullshitted lie, because they're B-list enough they haven't been able to get Wicked the past five times it's been through their district area and half their season lineup gets rounded out with tribute concerts and Cirque du Soleil knockoffs, but it's a bullshitted lie he gets paid thirteen bucks an hour to say, so he'll take it.

"It's for their anniversary?" the voice says, like the young man's trying to ask Louis' opinion if that's a good gift or not, and Louis thinks he damn well wishes he had friends who would go to such lengths for a gift for him. It's all he can do to get Niall to write on his Facebook wall every December when he's back home seeing his parents and Louis can't stand over his shoulder and dictate the message.

"How sweet," Louis says, "how long have they been together?" He figures he can justify the call time on this inquiry as 'taking a personal investment in the customer and making them feel important' and not 'listening to your dreamy voice ramble about any and all possible extended topics of conversation,' yeah, that's good.

"Three years?" the voice tells him, and there's with the questioning again.

"That seems like a good three-year anniversary present to me," Louis responds, looping the phone cord around his wrist and over again just because.

"Yeah," the voice says, "Liam likes music sorts of things, generally, I think? And Zayn likes what Liam likes, or likes it when Liam likes things, anyway, so that's good." Louis files away that piece information in his brain as a very vital one, because this voice having friends named Liam and Zayn who have been dating for three years is at least one step closer to this voice murmuring in his ear from over top of him on a couch with apartment lights dimmed and a champagne bottle uncorked, which is quite the pretty picture in Louis' brain, even if he hasn't got the slightest clue exactly who to picture.

"Then I think they'd love Phantom tickets," Louis proclaims. He'd love it if a boy with as good of a voice as this would buy him Phantom tickets, anyway.

"What about the other one?"

"Miss Saigon?" Louis asks, and the voice answers in the affirmative. "That one opens next week and runs through the weekend before Halloween."

"Oh," and Louis wants to nibble on the nougaty syllable, roll it around on his tongue and suck on it until every last bit of it dissolves away. "All right, then."

"All right?"

"Yeah," the voice says, "I'll think about that, I guess." Louis' hopes fall a little bit, because a ticket purchase would've at least gotten him a name, and possibly a phone number he'd put into his cell contacts for a week or two and stare at creepily until he convinced himself using his job to stalk cute-sounding boys violated some code of ethics in the contracts he signed at the beginning of the year, but most of his inquiries that end in _I'll think about it_ must take a lot of consideration, because he's still yet to hear back from a lot of them, including the ones who missed their shows in the process of all of that thinking.

"Feel free to call us back whenever you're ready to make a decision," Louis says, "I'm here every day but Tuesday. We can get your friends set up with their anniversary gift in just a few minutes."

"That sounds good," the voice says, then adds, "oh, hey, can I get your name? So I know who to talk to, I suppose. I mean." The last syllables come out all gooey and flustered, which Louis takes as a sign the guy must be as positively smitten with him as he is on his end.

"Louis," Louis tells him, sending him a wink through the phone line even if he can't see it, "Louis Tomlinson."

"It was nice to talk to you, Louis," the voice says in return, and Louis wonders if they wiretap these things, if there's any way Paul can pull that for him, because he'd very much like to listen to that voice say _Louis_ again.

Or maybe on loop for hours.

Or the rest of his life.

Mostly in the privacy of his own bedroom.

"Nice to talk to you, too," Louis says, "have a great day, and I'll look forward to hearing your choice soon, then."

"Yeah," the voice says, and Louis savors every last morsel of it that reaches his ears, "soon. I mean. Goodbye?"

"Bye now," Louis says, and there's silence for a moment where Louis almost gets his hopes up he's going to say something else, but instead, there's shuffling and a click to silence that Louis lets linger in his ear for just a moment longer, the sound of that voice saying _Louis_ echoing in his ears over and over again.

*

"Well, Nialler, guess what," he says, parading into the living room of their apartment and unwinding his scarf from around his neck, "I think I've met my soulmate today."

"Yep," Niall says, barely bothering to look up from the television, which isn't a proper response to the matter at hand at all, that won't do, so Louis plucks the remote from his hand to click the television off, which elicits a "hey, what'd you do that for?" from his roommate.

"Because there are far more important matters for you to be focusing on than this rerun of Judge Judy I know for a fact you've seen at least a dozen times," Louis tells him, "not the least of which being asking me more about this soulmate I've found for myself."

"All right, I'll bite," Niall says, sighing and sitting up when Louis flops down on the couch beside him, "who is he this time?"

Louis ponders this for a moment and realizes he doesn't know how to answer that.

"Well, I don't know," he says, and Niall rolls his eyes, which isn't very polite given the importance of the situation at hand.

"So you made him up," Niall says, "you imagined some pretty kid and now you're trying to fool me into buying your story." Louis flicks Niall's shoulder in response to that. "Give me back the remote."

"No," Louis shoots back, holding the remote just out of Niall's reach, "not until you listen to the story of my not-at-all-made-up soulmate."

"Fine," Niall grumbles, "I'm listening, Tommo."

"All right," Louis says, "well, for starters, he's got the damn sexiest voice I've ever heard, and he's a wealthy benefactor to boot."

"Finally found yourself a sugar daddy," Niall nods seriously, "I always knew this day would come. Let me guess, he's one of the season ticket holders, and he's so old they have to wheel him into the wheelchair section."

"Very funny," Louis pouts, "the wheelchair section guy was the one who was mad about obstructed views, not my soulmate, keep up."

"Oh, right," Niall says, "forgive me, sir, for not keeping track of your whole shift while I'm on mine." Louis smacks him for that. "So, what's the guy's name?"

"I don't know that either," Louis says, and Niall gives him a look that says he can't believe he's listening to this. "But I do know he's got gay friends, so he wouldn't mind me getting in his pants if the opportunity presented itself, which I intend to make happen if at all possible."

"Dude," Niall says, "having gay friends doesn't make you gay yourself, you idiot." He points to his chest. "See: exhibit A."

"It makes you open to the idea of a good blowjob," Louis quips back, "and you're just too repressed to realize your inner flamboyant metrosexual diva, Nialler."

"I don't know what the fuck that is," Niall says, so Louis smacks him again. "So, you don't know the guy's name, and you don't know a thing about him other than he's got gay friends I'm assuming he wants to buy tickets for, and there's probably no chance you'll ever talk to him again, am I getting this right here?"

Louis frowns. "Well, when you put it that way, the prospects sound more bleak than they are."

"That's because they are, dickhead," Niall says, but Louis refuses to let Niall's sourness get him down in his mission to get in that boy's pants. "Now give me back the remote, I had customers yelling at me all day about the new Call of Duty release and I just want to watch some trashy syndicated shit to make up for it, okay?"

Louis huffs and throws the remote straight at his head, because he can't think of a single reason right now why he puts up with Niall living in his apartment.

*

The next morning, Louis' main extension rings at 9:13.

"Good morning, Cowell Center for the Performing Arts," he says around a mouthful of his caramel macchiato, "where we bring the stars to you, what can I do for you?"

"Louis?" the voice says, and Louis almost spits out his mouthful of foam and caramel syrup.

"Couldn't resist hearing my voice again, could you, mystery caller," Louis teases, which is probably out of line but he doesn't give a fuck. "Make up your mind about those Phantom tickets?"

"No," the voice says, and the curiosity of which question it's in reference to threatens to drive him crazy all day already. "I mean. I was just curious, you mentioned next season, too, and I could get them tickets now for something in that and just have the tickets by November, right? D'you think that's a good idea?"

"I wouldn't see why it wouldn't be," Louis says, slurping up the last bit of coffee loudly, "our tickets print and mail in seven to ten days, unless you're holding at will call, in which case you could always wrap up a season brochure and explain the idea."

"Right," the voice says, pausing to consider. "Okay. What are the shows for next season?"

"We kick off with Legally Blonde in February," Louis recites from memory, "then have a limited run with Rock of Ages in April, followed by the Ten Irish Tenors in June, Shrek the Musical from July into August, our Beatles tribute in September, White Christmas over Halloween weekend—ironic, I know—and we round out the year with Next to Normal, but that would be quite far out for your purposes, wouldn't it, although I suppose you could always remember it for next year's present." Maybe by next year he'll be on the guy's gift-buying list, if all works out according to his hopes, so he decides dropping a hint could have its purposes: "that's the one I'm most personally excited for, though."

"Yeah?" the guy asks. "Have you seen it before?"

"I wish," Louis says wistfully, "but I haven't been up to New York since my senior showcase, alas."

"Senior showcase," the guy echoes blankly, and normally Louis would be aghast at such an implication, but the guy's cluelessness is part of his charm, he supposes. Either that or he could say anything in that voice and Louis would be equal parts endeared and aroused, which, thinking about it, is probably more the true story here. "What's that?"

"Your exit exam for college musical theater programs, of sorts, I guess," he answers, "you all round up to New York or Chicago and pray you come out with an agent or an audition or anything that isn't a belly full of New York bagels." He hopes the bitterness of his tone doesn't carry through too strongly to the other end of the line. "And if you don't, you end up peddling tickets to shows you don't get to be a part of yourself." Well, so much for that.

"Huh," the voice considers, "I would've thought you would've been one of the ones that would've gotten that." He pauses, then adds, "I mean, your singing and all."

"My singing?" Louis says, feigning puzzlement when his entire consciousness is shouting _he remembered your singing, by jove, he does want in your pants, Tommo_ at the top of its lungs.

"Nevermind," the voice says, doing the flustered thing again. "Okay. That's seven shows for next season?"

"Right," Louis says, then adds, crossing his fingers around the coffee cup he's still idling with, "we could mail you a season brochure, if you'd like to be put on our mailing list?"

"Oh," the voice says, then crushes Louis' hopes of a name or address by saying, "no, that won't be necessary, I don't think. I'll. Um. Think about it and get back with you?"

"Sure thing," Louis says, trying not to sigh audibly, because if this boy isn't the tease. "I think your friends will like whatever it is you decide on, you know," he adds for good measure.

"You think?" the voice asks, then adds, "I know, I mean. I just want it to be something special, I guess?"

Louis nods, then realizes the guy can't see him. "Of course," he reiterates, "they sound like special friends, so I'm sure you want your gift to reflect that." He could smack himself right now for how it comes out; he hadn't meant to imply the guy was banging them both in a ménage a trios or something of the like.

"They are, they're good, those two," the voice says softly, "they've helped me come to a lot in the past, we went to school together, and now that I can afford it I want to do something nice for them in return, you know?"

Louis nods again, a million questions in his head about what the guy does for a living and just what it is his friends helped him with, but he just says, equally solemn, "I understand. I think."

"You do?" the voice asks, all earnest and hopeful and a bunch of other horrid things that make Louis want to kick himself for how much he cares already about someone he'll never meet.

"I do," he says.

There's silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

Louis hates silence, even if this isn't a particularly uncomfortable one, so he jumps in, "well, you think about those shows, and get back with me when you've made your decision, all right?"

"Right," the voice says, "Tuesdays, right?"

"Tuesdays?"

"That's when you're off, isn't it," the voice says, trailing off into a mumble like maybe he thinks Louis will think it's a bad thing that he remembers the information, but the only thing Louis thinks is a bad thing is how much the recollection makes his heart swell.

"Excellent memory, my friend," Louis says, beaming against his better judgment. "Don't stress yourself out too much over the decision, you hear?"

"I won't," the voice says, although its tone indicates the exact opposite.

"Don't be a stranger," Louis adds, tossing his cup into the trash can by his office door.

"I won't," and this time, the guy sounds a lot more sure of his answer.

*

Eleanor's waiting for him in the downstairs hallway by the elevator at 12:30, just like always, good old reliable El, which is one of the many things Louis loves about her. She gives him a small wave, looking up from her Blackberry, and he scurries over to kiss her on the cheek, because he's never been so grateful to see a friendly face after the remainder of this morning. He's spent the past two hours on damage control, because that idiot intern double-booked schools in the same seats for the Wednesday matinee and now there are middle school teachers threatening to pull their support for in-school programming if he doesn't remedy the situation immediately. He's had voicemails into Paul all morning with no response, and the lone coworker who had been in the office with him had stared at him over the water cooler and told him school tickets weren't his responsibility, and if only he had those voodoo dolls with him at the moment, well. There are pushpins with the guy's name on them waiting next to his liquor cabinet when he gets home. Pushpins for the both of them, pushpins for middle school teachers and pushpins for the people who book Broadway tours and pushpins for the better half of this godforsaken building, if he's being honest about things.

"You look stressed, sweetheart," El tells him, rubbing a thumb over the sleeve of his peacoat as he finishes the buttons, "something happen this morning?"

"Don't even get me started," he sighs, "were you aware that Chris is an imbecile who simply cannot remember to mark things down when he takes ticket reservations? An imbecile, I tell you."

"You've mentioned," El nods, a sly little smile playing at her lips, "once or twice, I think."

"Well, it can't be said enough," he says, and El shakes her head as they start toward the door toward their standing Noodles and Company lunch date. This is why El is the best person who works at this arts center, he thinks, holding the door open for her as they walk outside. The only person that doesn't grate on his nerves, unless you count Dani and Ed down on the third floor, but they're in and out enough with residency things that he hardly gets to see them. No, El is the only sane person who works on five entire floors of arts organizations, and he loves her for it, for the friendly smile she greets him with once a week at half past noon and the boys she's always trying to set him up with, even if not one of them has lasted past three dates so far. It's the thought that counts, and El's always thoughtful, if he can say anything about her.

"So, fill me in," he says, linking arms as they start down Second Avenue, "how did your date with James go last night?"

"Dreadful," El sighs, tucking her hands into the crook of Louis' elbow to keep away the wind, "absolutely dreadful. Talk about not getting started, ugh."

"Dreadful as in, 'he was every bit as boring as his wardrobe' dreadful, or dreadful as in, 'I need to send in reinforcements to keep that wolf away from your little red riding habit' dreadful?" Louis inquires, a little skip in his step as they make their way down the sidewalk the few door fronts to the restaurant.

"The first one," El says, "don't worry, I _wish_ he would've tried to get into my riding habit. Would've livened the evening up, at least."

"Ah," Louis nods, grabbing for the restaurant door and gesturing for El to go in in front of him. "So it was about as successful as our first date, I take it?"

El grins at the mention. One of their coworkers had slyly arranged a date for the two of them the first week he'd started at the Center, under the guise of drinks for a group, then patted them on the shoulder when they both arrived and left them to their own devices with a wink, because apparently the guy didn't have _eyes_ or a gaydar to save his soul. It had turned out splendidly in the end, though, so he can't begrudge the initial secondhand embarrassment. "Even less so," El says, "at least I got my best friend out of that deal. And trust me, I don't want a standing lunch date with Mister Let-Me-Tell-You-About-All-My-Exes-and-Also-All-My-Meds, no thank you."

"Oh," Louis winces as they make their way up to the food line, "that does sound dreadful, doesn't it."

"Tell me about it," she sighs, musing up at the board like she won't get the same pad Thai combo she's gotten every day since they've started lunching together.

"Well, if he calls back again wanting another date," Louis says, grinning and weighing his options today between the stroganoff and the truffle mac, "you'll just have to tell him that your boyfriend won't stand for it, will he?" El laughs at the suggestion; they've taken to calling each other 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' ever since that first star-crossed meeting, whenever the necessity arises or just because.

"I might take you up on that," she says, biting at her manicured thumbnail as she steps up to the counter. "A small size pad Thai and a lemonade, thanks." She pulls out her wallet, but Louis swats her hand away, because she paid for drinks last weekend and it's the least he can do. He gives his order—settling on the stroganoff, because it's three dollars less and his wallet is looking a little lean now that he inspects it—and hands the man at the register a twenty, scooting out of the way for the next customer. "What about you?" El asks, ribbing him. "I haven't heard anything about that date of yours this weekend yet."

"That's because there's nothing to hear," he says, pulling out El's chair and taking a seat for himself, then leans his elbows on their table. "But tell me, do you believe in kismet, El?"

"Do you mean the Broadway flop, or the general concept, love?" She grins around the mouth of her lemonade bottle. "You'll have to be a little more specific."

"What I mean is, on a scale of one-to-Paul-would-fire-me-on-the-spot, just how inappropriate do you think it would be to proposition a potential ticket-buying customer before he does, in fact, commit to a purchase?"

El looks at him, amusement playing on her face, and says, "I'm not even going to justify that with a response, sweetheart," which is probably yet another one of the reasons he loves her.

*

There's a voicemail waiting for him when he gets back from lunch; no real message left, just some shuffling and then a, "hello?" followed by an, "oh, that must've been the voicemail, guess I'll call back later," in a voice that he thinks he'd recognize anywhere.

Louis grumbles and settles in to deal with the day's crisis, sulking a little.

He could've at least left a phone number, he thinks.

Tease.

*

The elusive benefactor finally stops teasing him Monday around eleven, when Louis picks up a call and hears his favorite voice tell him, "well, I think I've finally made my decision."

 _You'd like to run away with me for a debauched weekend in Cabo before getting down on one knee and proposing, we're on the same page, yes?_ Louis stifles in favor of, "good, I knew you'd quit worrying about all of this eventually. Now, what'll it be, my international man of mystery, Miss Saigon or Phantom, or should I pull up next season's database?"

"I think I'm going to go with Phantom," the voice says, then seems to wince at saying the words out loud, "you really think that'll be all right? I mean, Liam might hate Andrew Lloyd Webber. He's kind of a snob when it comes to those sorts of things." The voice chuckles. "Don't tell him I said that."

"My lips are sealed," Louis says, zipping them for good measure even though he can't see and he doesn't know Liam from Adam or Steve to squeal in the first place, "and namedropping Webber, someone's been doing their research, I see."

"A little," the voice says sheepishly.

"Good, good," Louis says, "then for your bravery in decision-making, instead of asking you to sing me some Sunset Boulevard, I'll play nice and just take your information down." He bubbles up with nerves in spite of himself, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder to poise his fingers over the keyboard. "First name, please?"

"Harry," the voice— _Harry_ , Louis thinks with the inner squeal of a fourteen-year-old girl, at last his love has a name and it's a beautiful one to boot—says, coughing, "Harry Styles."

"Harry Styles," Louis says, reiterating like he needs to for typing purposes but mostly just wanting to drawl it out around his lips for fun. "And what night are you looking at, Harry Styles?"

"Friday, I think," Harry says, "the first one? The one that's not Veteran's Day, yeah?"

"Excellent choice," Louis nods, "Friday nights are always the best atmosphere, if you ask me. Such a nice thing to look forward to after work and all."

"Oh, Zayn doesn't work," Harry says, "I mean, he does, but not in an office, not like that."

"Yeah?" Louis asks, leaning back in his chair and abandoning the database for a moment. "What does the lucky bastard do, then?"

"He's an artist," Harry tells him, "visual art, he's in the studio all sorts of hours to make up for it, though." Harry laughs, the first time he's heard him sound relaxed in their entire exchange of phone conversations, and Louis makes it his mission to do anything he can to pull that laugh out of him again and again.

"Quite the glamorous line of work," Louis says, "I'd imagine that pays about as well as the theater business, am I correct?"

Harry laughs again, and Louis pulls his fist in a gesture of victory. "Well, he's pretty talented," Harry says, "so it pays better than most, I suppose. But Liam'd take care of him even if it didn't, I think."

"Liam sounds like a quality fellow, then," Louis nods again, "sounds like your Zayn's lucky to have someone like him."

"They're lucky to have each other," Harry says, and Louis wants to ask him so badly if he's lucky to have someone, too, or if he's maybe, just maybe, still looking for _that_ lucky someone to play benefactor to as well. "I think you'd like Liam, really." A pause. "I mean, you seem like a nice guy, that's all."

"Why, thank you, Harry Styles," Louis says, then to cover up his excitement at that, adds, "but flattery will not get you a reduced ticket rate, unfortunately, so why don't we get back down to business here?"

"Oh, right," Harry says, "you probably need some more information out of me. That's right."

Louis finds out a few choice bits of information about Harry as he takes his ticket information: for one, his apartment address is the address of one of the nice lofts just on the edge of the cultural district, which says he makes enough money to afford a view of downtown (Louis doesn't let his nerves bubble over when he thinks of the idea that Harry could be calling him from just a few blocks away, just a few blocks from where he's sitting right now), and he charges the bill to one of those fancy American Express cards with the minimum purchase limit and rewards benefits and all, if he's recognizing the opening digit code right, which only confirms his suspicions that his soulmate is not only gorgeous _and_ dripping with charm and kindness of heart but also dripping in money. He could do worse, for a soulmate, he thinks. Much, much worse, indeed.

"All right," he says, typing in the last digits of Harry's credit card number, "I'll run this, and email you an invoice, and then you should receive the tickets in seven to ten days, unless you want them held at will call? I figure you probably don't want them mailed directly to them, since it's a surprise and all."

"Oh," Harry says, and Louis thinks it's terribly cute the way all of the most simple logic things seem to catch Harry completely off guard, every time without fail. "Um, maybe hold them at will call, if you want? Zayn's always losing things, and I'd hate for the tickets to end up somewhere mixed in with his paint supplies the night of, you know?"

"Ah, Harry," Louis grins, "always the thoughtful one, aren't you, darling."

A pause. "I try," Harry says, and since he hasn't hung up on Louis or asked to speak to someone else to finish his order thus far, Louis takes it as a sign that he's perfectly receptive to his flirting because he's passionately in love with him and currently fantasizing about what he must look like naked.

Not that that's anything Louis has ever done for himself, on his end.

"All right, Harry Styles, we've got you all set here," Louis says, then has the horrible thought that this might be the last time he ever talks to him, "but if there's anything else you need, you call me back, and I will personally assist you in any way I can, you hear?" He waggles his eyebrows and hopes his tone conveys the lecherousness of his offer. "Any way at all, promise."

"I might take you up on that offer, Louis Tomlinson," Harry says, and when he hangs up, the first thing Louis does is absolutely, categorically not whip out his phone to punch in Harry's phone number, because that would be the creepiest possible move in a moment like this.

Which would bother him, if he were above being a little creepy every now and then, but drastic times call for drastic measures, especially where soulmates are concerned.

*

"What're you doing?" Niall says, leaning over the back of the couch to peer down at Louis' laptop screen, which Louis shuts immediately with a snap of his wrist.

"Nothing," Louis says, which earns him a doubtful look, "nothing that's any of your business, Horan."

"Yes, you were," Niall says, grabbing for the laptop, but Louis shoves it under a pillow and out of his reach. "You were stalking that kid you're in love with on Facebook, I'm not as much of a dumbass as you give me credit for."

"You're precisely as much of a dumbass as I give you credit for, which is why I love you, Nialler," Louis says, patting him on the chin, and Niall grumbles and shoos his hand away.

"How's it going with the soulmate thing, anyway?" Niall asks around a mouthful of milk and cereal. "You make it to second base yet, or the telephone wires making it hard for you to cop a feel?"

"Very funny," Louis says, pursing his lips. "I did, in fact, find out that he is fabulously wealthy, has friends in high places in the art scene, and reacts in a tremendously adorable fashion when you call him out on how much stalking of his own he's been doing. The things you learn, you see."

"Right," Niall says skeptically, slurping the rest of the milk out of his spoon. "Long as it means he'll pay for the pizza, I'm in." He shrugs. "Even if he is probably an old dude." Louis pokes him in the stomach, which makes half the milk go sloshing out of his bowl and onto the couch cushions. "Speaking of pizza, you want me to order pepperoni or sausage for tonight?"

"Sausage is fine," Louis says, sighing, "and he's not an 'old dude,' I will have you know he's very attractive and practically perfect all around, if I do say so."

"Facebook tell you that?" Niall asks, nodding toward where the computer's hidden under the couch cushion, so Louis picks up said couch cushion and throws it at his head. "All right, all right, I can take a hint, I'll be in my room if you need me."

Louis cracks open the computer as soon as he's sure Niall's out of the room and pulls back up the Facebook search results.

There are, in fact, more than sixty Harry Styleses within the greater hundred mile radius of his apartment, it seems. Some of them are rather attractive, although not as attractive as he was hoping for in a soulmate, he's got standards if they're in this for the long haul, after all; some of them also have attractive girlfriends to go along with their attractive faces smiling up at him from their profile pictures, which he simply refuses to believe could be the case with _his_ Harry Styles, so he scrolls right on past to the next page of results. Some of them are distinguished-looking gentlemen in their mid-thirties with business suits and Bluetooth earpieces; Louis reckons he could do worse than if his soulmate turned out to be one of those, because there's something to be said for the sex appeal of a little bit older man. More experience, anyway, which probably means better in bed, in the long run.

Some of them are, however, potbellied forty-somethings (drinking _Coors Light_ , really, have they no taste at all, he scoffs) or grandfatherly types graying at the temples, both of which he wrinkles his nose at and keeps on scrolling, because he simply refuses to believe that his Harry could be _that_ distinguished.

He's on the picture of a sour-looking elderly man holding a toddler girl on his knee when Niall shouts at him from his bedroom, "told you he was shriveled up and ugly, didn't I," which is impeccable timing as Niall always has.

He wonders if Niall can see him flip him the finger through his bedroom door from this angle.

*

He calls Harry bright and early on Monday morning and gets his voicemail, which gives him precious little more information, unfortunately, and reminds him that, just in case he does find out that Liam is in fact an avowed Andrew Lloyd Webber snob, he can always exchange in the tickets right up to the door the night of the show for equal value vouchers for anything else on next season's lineup.

It's not exactly true, the kind of not-exactly-true that will have Paul hopping mad if Harry takes him up on the offer, but sneaking two tickets out of the development director's complimentary sponsor box when no one else is around is a risk he's willing to take in the name of true love.

*

He makes it in at a quarter to eight on Wednesday morning, the usual macchiato in hand and an extra skip in his step despite the early season snow blustering around outside, and he's in such a good mood he decides to get his exercise and take the stairs instead of the elevator all the way up to the fifth floor, which turns out to be a wonderful idea seeing as how he runs into Danielle between floors two and three.

"Louis, darling!" she exclaims, throwing her arms around him, and Louis gives her ass a squeeze through her leotard and shorts. "Cheeky," she winks at him, "how've you been?"

"The usual," he sighs, trying to hide his smile, because Dani is always too good at ratting out his good moods, "the disgustingly boring, tedious usual. But nothing could compare to the sexiness of your lucrative job, I suppose."

"Right, sexy, that's it," Dani says, laughing, "dance workshops for toddlers at 9:30 in the morning are the very definition of 'sexy.'"

"If anyone could make them sexy, it'd be you," he thinks, then wrinkles his nose, because toddlers are decidedly un-sexy as a rule, "oh, ew, that was bad, even for me."

"The worst in a while," she teases, booping him on the nose.

"How's Ed?" he inquires about her co-worker, "I haven't seen him in a while, is he still doing the in-school gigs for you guys?"

"Not as many this year," she says, nodding to the handrail and asking him if he minds, so he steps out of the way for her to put her leg up. "He's recording an album, did you know? The tour over the summer really worked out for him."

"That's fantastic," Louis says as Dani folds her body over her leg, hair flopping all over the handrail, and flexes her other knee, making her cleavage bob up and down a little.

"Yeah," she says, crooking her neck over at him while she stretches, "although anything's better than singing the periodic table of elements over your guitar to seventh-graders, I suppose."

"Ugh," Louis makes a face, "I'd want to shoot myself after a while, I'm sure." He loves kids, he has to, growing up with four sisters and all, but the thought of compromising his craft like that sounds like a death sentence, if this place generally isn't enough of one. "Better man than myself, that Sheeran, he is." He takes a sip of macchiato while Dani switches legs. "Well, I hate to leave you all limbered up in that getup with no workout partner," he says, "but the phone's not going to answer itself."

"Take care, babe," she says, kissing him on the cheek, and he returns the gesture before taking the rest of the stairs two at a time all the way up.

There's a voicemail waiting for him among the shuffle of the other million voicemails when he gets to his office.

"Um," Harry mumbles, "I just wanted to say, thanks for letting me know about the exchange policy, and I think I'm going to have to take you up on that offer? Not about the show, but can we move them out of the balcony? I kind of forgot, Zayn's afraid of heights and I don't want him to be sick the whole show, so, um." He clears his throat. "Right. Call me back, Lou? I'm sorry if that's a problem, I'll try not to be dumb next time?"

Louis' positively giddy as he dials back Harry's phone number, because _Lou_ means things are moving along quite swimmingly toward candlelight and blowjobs here, now, aren't they. The phone rings once, twice, then, sadly, goes straight to voicemail, but Louis doesn't let it deter him, humming _Rent_ to himself under his breath as he waits for the beep because what else is he supposed to do when he makes himself think of candles and sexual tension? "Would you light my—oh, right, sorry, Haz, got a little distracted there." He straightens himself up in his chair a little, smiling at his on-a-whim choice of nickname for his loverboy. "We can absolutely switch you out of the balcony," he says, pulling up the database and crossing his fingers that it's not a lie and breathing a sigh of relief when the perfect pair of floor tickets jump out at him for that Friday night. "How does, let's see, Row F, seats seven and eight, sound to you? They're on an aisle, so they'll have a great view, and no one wants to sit right in the front row anyway, conductor's head bobbing up and down and all that. Right, well, I'll tentatively switch you out, and I'll assume if I don't hear from you that that works?" The thought of not hearing back at this point is too sad to bear, so he adds, "or, you could always just call back anyway, if you feel like you need a little Lou in your life." He wonders if that's too far. "Just teasing. Have a good day, hear?"

By the time he gets off his next phone call, there's a voicemail from the other line that says, "sounds fantastic, and if you ever need a little Haz in your life—I mean, wish me luck I won't have any more questions after this."

Louis crosses his fingers and hopes for the exact opposite.

*

A call on Friday that starts out as an inquiry about whether Harry thinks Liam and Zayn would like to be put on the mailing list even though they're not having tickets sent to them turns into a fifteen-minute conversation about the merits of Rock Band over Just Dance when Louis discovers Harry's using his morning off to hook up his new Wii, and Louis thinks, any boy who appreciates the merits of a friendly video game competition when he's probably making six figures before the age of thirty sounds exactly like the boy for him.

"Working hard or hardly working, Tommo?" Paul says, popping his head in the office door just at the moment that Louis dissolves into Harry's fit of giggles at his admission that he's currently sitting in the middle of his loft apartment tangled in a mess of tri-color wires. "Remember, you're not supposed to be on personal calls."

"Oh, it's not a personal call," Louis says, holding his hand over the phone, because he's not sure how Harry would feel about that statement by now, actually. "This one's a paying customer, Pauly, don't you worry."

"Right," Paul says, taking a bite of his sandwich as he ducks back out the door, "that's a good one. Now get back to work."

The thing is, Louis' not sure when this became his work, chuckling and listening to Harry desperately trying to untie a massive knot of wires.

*

"So," he muses to El over drinks at the little jazz piano bar across the street from the arts center after work that night, cocking his eyebrow in a deliberate smirk, "just how livid do you think our Ticketmaster reps would be if I were to need two tickets for the 2nd reprinted because of completely fictional erroneous barcoding? I mean, one would have to call and make apologies about that sort of thing and assure the customer that their tickets would, in fact, make it to the will call box, yes?"

El studies him over her Cosmopolitan. "I'm going to end up in a bridesmaid's dress or on the side of the road watching a trainwreck by the end of all of this, aren't I?"

"Of course not, why would you say that?" Louis asks innocently, but he can't hide his toothy smile. "But just for future reference, what size dress do you wear?"

"I'm going to pretend to be offended by that and just tell you it's impolite to ask a lady her clothes size," El says, and goes back to her drink.

*

He's got three Manhattans in him by the time he's making his way out of the bar an hour later, so the buffer is just enough to feel absolutely no shame when he whips his cell phone out on the sidewalk and punches the button to dial the phone number of Harry's that he has absolutely no logical reason for still having in his contacts. One ring, two rings; he bounces a little on the sidewalk, skipping over cracks and waiting for Harry to pick up.

"Hello?" Harry's voice is confused when he finally does. "Who is this?"

"Long time no talk, Haz," Louis says, sounding unsteadier than he thinks he ought to when it comes out. "What'cha up to?"

"Are you still working?" Harry asks. "It's eight o'clock, don't they ever let you out of there?"

"Of course not," Louis waves his hand, coming to lean against the side of a dark storefront underneath its awning. "I just missed hearing your voice, that's all, silly."

"Have you been drinking?" Harry questions, although he doesn't sound judgmental about it, rather amused, in fact.

"Never," Louis whispers, mock-scandalized. "Why, I'm mortified at the implication, Mr. Styles, mortified, I tell you. Just what kind of man would you take me for?"

"The kind of man who's apparently drunk-dialing his customers on the weekend, I'm assuming," Harry says affectionately, and there's the sound of him flopping down on what Louis must assume is the couch in his apartment. Louis briefly wonders if that couch is conducive to positions in the Kama Sutra, and he's very proud of himself when he doesn't say that out loud.

Instead, he says, "what's a fine young man like yourself doing picking up on a Friday night, anyway? Haven't you got multiple ladies lining up at your door to take you out for dinner?" He pauses, starting back up the sidewalk again, and decides to go for the gusto. "Or suitors, if that floats your boat."

"Last time I checked, there weren't any suitors offering," Harry responds, laughing, and Louis actually pumps his fist in the air at that, because he'll take whatever implied admission he can get.

"I'd offer to fill the void, but that would be terribly inappropriate of me," Louis answers, because fuck Paul's lectures right now, "wouldn't it, Haz? Hazza? H?"

"Probably," Harry says, and Louis'll take that one, too. "That what you called to ask about, or has there been another unfortunate mishap with my tickets?" The lilt in his voice is smug, and Louis thinks, right asshole.

"No ticket mishaps," Louis says, "just walking back to my apartment and thought I'd take you up on your offer of a little Haz in my life. Or at least the eight blocks home, anyway."

"I can do that," Harry says, and the sounds of background noise television creep through the phone speaker along with it.

They talk about nothing for most of Louis' walk back to his apartment, and Louis' very proud of himself when the worst that he says is, "El thinks it's rude to ask what size bridesmaid's dress she wears, do you think that's rude, Haz?"

"I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," Harry says as Louis fumbles for the keys to his building, and so he just says, "nevermind," and tells him he'd best be going in order to ward off any suspicious teasing before he makes it up the stairs.

Niall's asleep on the couch anyway, still in his GameStop uniform with some terrible movie humming in the background, so he tosses a throw blanket over top of him and proceeds to flop down on his bed, telling himself, you make good life choices, Tomlinson, yes, indeed you do.

*

The start of the week's sure to be crazy, what with Phantom days away and all, so Louis makes sure to get into the office bright and early Monday morning, popping in to wave at Danielle through the door of the dance studio before making his way up to his office. He's not sure when he started looking forward to coming into work this much, but he finds himself humming happily as he scrawls down the voicemail messages from the weekend onto a notepad before dialing up Harry's number by memory.

"Morning, sunshine," he says when Harry answers the phone, "didn't expect you to pick up, I figured you'd have gone into work already, unless, don't tell me, you're playing hooky waiting by the phone just for me, did I get it right?"

"Not exactly," Harry says groggily, "I don't go in until noon today, I traded shifts."

"Aww," Louis tuts at the phone, "did I wake wittle Harry up, then?" The groan and sound of Harry blowing his nose into a tissue confirms the answer for him. "Well," he says, "I was just calling to make sure you pass along to Liam and Zayn that the doors open at seven-thirty, so if they wanted to make dinner reservations beforehand, they'll know what time to make them for." He stretches over all the way in his chair, straining his arm to push his office door shut. "How'd the big surprise go?"

"Pretty well," Harry says, "I think Liam did roll his eyes a little about it being Webber and all, but he tried not to let me see."

"They love you for it regardless, I'm sure," Louis tells him, because he knows it's true, even if he doesn't know Liam and Zayn.

"Yeah," Harry says, "hang on a second, I've got to pull this shirt over my head, let me sit the phone down." Louis tries not to squirm in his chair at the thought of Harry taking off his shirt, but his chair rocks on its swivel axis a little anyway. "There, that's better."

"Do you mean to tell me that the great Harry Styles is shirtless in my presence?" Louis asks, drawing his voice out a little seductively for good effect. "Why, I feel honored at the thought, really."

"You're really something, aren't you," Harry jokes, "but, um. Yeah."

"Yeah?" Louis asks, because this is very, very relevant to his interests. His piqued-all-over-again interests.

"I mean—that's probably awkward, you're at work and—nevermind," he says, and Louis loves it when he get all flustered like this, it reminds him of the beginning of their little phone-line courtship, "I'll tell Liam and Zayn about the door time, I'm sure they'll want to go out to dinner beforehand."

Louis swallows and figures it's now or never, given that their show's in less than a week now. "Does it have to be awkward?"

"Does—does what have to be awkward?" Harry's gulp is audible over the phone, even.

"I'm just saying," Louis says, lowering his voice so it doesn't carry out into the greater office and hoping Paul isn't happening to be passing by at just that moment, "it's not like there's anything wrong with being shirtless, is there?"

"Of course not," Harry stammers, "I mean, I am more often than not, to tell the truth—I mean."

"Oh, no you don't," Louis says, grinning and swiveling his chair away from the door. "You don't leave a guy hanging with just that, do you? Please go on, Harry Styles."

"Go on?" Harry asks. "You mean—like, tell you what I'm wearing right now?"

"If you'd like," Louis asks, attempting to make his voice sound raspy when it probably just sounds ragged, because he's getting a little short of air with this damned office all closed up like this already.

"I—well, alright," Harry says, sighing like he can't quite decide if this is a good idea or not, but adds, "I mean, I'm only in my briefs right now, now that that shirt's on the floor," which means he must've decided to err on the side of playing along, after all.

"Mmm," Louis says, trying desperately to imagine a sight he doesn't even know where to begin pulling up, but enjoying it nonetheless. "What color?"

"Um. Blue?" Harry asks, sounding just as nervous as the first day they'd talked all over again.

"Good," Louis says, barely above a whisper and getting paranoid that someone outside will hear now that the conversation has taken, well, this sort of turn.

"Good?" Harry echoes.

And because Louis' never been one for holding back, he mumbles, "yeah, but better if you weren't, you know."

Harry's breath hitches obscenely at that.

"I'd, um," he says, then stops, and Louis actually has to shift in his seat a little at what comes next. "I wouldn't object to that either, I don't suppose."

"Excellent to know," Louis mumbles, straightening up at the sound of shuffling past his doorway. He pauses until the shuffling fades away, then adds, "since we both wouldn't object to that, care to enlighten me on what else you wouldn't object to, either?"

"Oh," Harry says, except it's more of an outright whimper than a word, and Louis bites his lip. "I mean. I wouldn't object if. If you wanted to. I mean."

"Wanted to?" Louis breathes, and it is so hard to keep his voice quiet, so hard not to be able to see Harry right now, on his bed in just briefs, to not even know what the sight of that looks like, so hard not to keep from pressing his palm down to the seat of his slacks right now.

"Wanted to, you know," Harry says, voice so low and dark it's barely more than a rumble, "join me. In not wearing so much."

"Shit," Louis whispers, letting out a quiet, low whistle. "I wouldn't object to that either, I can't say."

"I could help with that," Harry continues, "if you wanted. I'm very eager to please, if you hadn't already gathered that by now."

"You could do that," Louis says, compulsively checking the doorknob, trying to keep the ear that it's pressed to the phone trained to listen for even the slightest footstep. "You could absolutely do that, keep talking."

"Um," Harry murmurs, "well, first I'd need to know what you're wearing, though."

Louis looks over at the door one more time, figures his chances, and reaches over to twist the lock on. "Purple shirt, buttons, pressed slacks, no undershirt," he mutters, scooting back as far to the other side of the tiny office as he can get from the door and finally pressing a palm against the tension that's skyrocketing through him.

"Would you like me to unbutton them for you?" Harry asks, and his voice is surprisingly confident, for Harry, like he's done this sort of thing before, and the thought of that drives Louis completely wild. "I'd have to go slow, you know. One by one."

"Yes," Louis hisses, "you could do that. Yes."

"One by one," Harry repeats for emphasis, "till there weren't any buttons left, and then what would I do?"

"Shit," Louis says again, "there's always one more button you could help with, you know. Not just buttons on shirts."

"Good point," Harry says, "I could be helpful with that, too."

"I'd like it if you were," Louis whispers.

"I'd like it, too," and Harry's voice is barely above his now.

Louis bites back a moan through his squeezed-shut lips, but he knows Harry can hear over the phone.

Harry's silent.

They're both silent.

And Louis doesn't know what to do with the silence, for once.

"Um," Harry says, after a minute, "I should probably—I've got some errands to run before work, I should probably get going here."

"Me too," Louis agrees, squirming in his chair still, "I should—I've got phone calls to return, anyway."

"You should probably do that," Harry says, and his voice is a little weird, "you're at work and all, I suppose."

"Yeah," Louis says, and shit, he was right about Harry being a tease, because he's aching against his slacks and his face has to be a hundred shades of red right now. "I probably should."

"You should," Harry says, "I should go."

"Yeah," Louis says, and then adds, in spite of everything, because it's what they've done for so long now with this game, "let me know if you've got any more questions before the show on Friday, all right?"

"Right," is all Harry says, before the phone clicks off on his end.

Louis unlocks his door, barely checking for footsteps, and scrambles for the fifth-floor restroom as quick as he can in a desperate, conspicuously-shuffling attempt not to run into anyone on his way.

*

He can't even stop the skip that falls into his step on his way up the stairs and onto the third floor landing of their apartment floor later, waltzing in the door to find Niall munching on a bag of chips and playing Nintendo. "Hey," Niall calls over his shoulder at the sound of the door, not looking up from his game.

"Don't you get enough of that at work, Nialler?" he asks, humming to himself as he hangs up his coat on the coat rack and dusts his slacks off. "You have to come straight away home and start playing them here, too?"

"It's not like I get to play them at work," Niall says, pausing the game and turning to face him, his nonplussed expression quickly changing upon seeing him. "Shit, I know that look, that's your I-just-got-laid look, you bastard."

"Is not," Louis protests, even if he can't stop himself from smiling stupidly and revealing himself.

"Yes," Niall says, insistent, "yes, it is, I've lived with you long enough to know that look anywhere." He makes a face. "I've heard enough to know it anywhere. Spill, Tommo."

Louis bounds over to the couch to sit beside him. "Well, if you must know," he says, "I didn't technically get laid, but a certain Mister Styles and I most definitely got intimately acquainted with each other during the course of our regularly scheduled morning conversation."

Niall's eyes go wide. "You didn't."

"I did," Louis says, nodding proudly.

Niall reaches over and pats him on the back. "Well, congrats on your life," he says, "he's probably ninety after all, and I'm pretty sure you just got gonorrhea over the phone."

"Shut up," Louis says, "he is not ninety, no ninety-year-old could keep up like that."

"Don't wanna hear it," Niall says, putting on a face.

"He wears briefs, in case you were wondering."

"So much more than I need to know."

"Blue ones."

"I'm going back to the game," Niall says, and Louis is certain his squirm on the couch as he picks the controller back up is out of jealousy or secret intrigue, or possibly both.

*

"Good morning, Cowell Center for the Performing Arts box office association," Louis answers cheerfully Wednesday morning, "this is Louis, how can I help you?"

"What're you wearing, Lou?" Niall's voice purrs at him from the other end of the line, and Louis almost hangs up on him then and there. "Better be something sexy, in case Harry calls in, Paul know he's paying you to be a phone sex worker there now?"

"No personal calls, remember," Louis shoots back, face somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. "I'm not allowed."

"Right, I forgot," Niall says, "they only make exceptions for soulmates around there." There's some commotion in the background, and Louis assumes he's either calling from the breakroom or outside on a smoke. "And ninety-year-olds."

"For the last time, he is not ninety," Louis says petulantly, "now tell me what you want before I really do get yelled at."

"Nothing important," Niall says, "just getting off early and wondering when you were getting home, if you wanted me to grab some candy for trick-or-treaters on the way home."

"We live on the third floor of an apartment building downtown," Louis says, "you just want an excuse to eat it all before you get home," which they both know is the truth, probably.

"Fair enough," Niall says, and the sound of a car whooshing past tells Louis it's probably a smoke break. "Want some takeout instead?"

The sound of the second line beeping in interrupts his response. "Got to go," he says, "I'll text you later and let you know if I'll be home for dinner or not, all right?"

"Whatever," Louis hears him start to say, but he's already clicked over before Niall finishes.

"Good morning, Cowell Center for the Performing Arts box office association," he says, as cheerful the second time around, "this is Louis, how can I help you?"

"Um," Harry's voice starts tentatively, "hey."

"Well, hello there, handsome," Louis drawls, "thought you were avoiding me after Monday or something, it's already ten-fifteen."

"I just wanted to let you know," Harry says, and there's something in his voice that makes Louis uneasy, "you should probably put the tickets in their names for will call, you know? I completely forgot that."

The pit of Louis' stomach drops out, even if what Harry's saying makes total sense; he just hadn't seen it coming that they were reaching the end of their little game, hadn't bothered to think about it before now. "Right, of course," he says, "give me their last names? I feel like I should know that by now, but tell me again."

"I don't think I've told you before," Harry says, and his voice is—cold? distant? scared?—and Louis thinks, oh, great, I fucked it up with the sex thing. Shit.

"Oh, okay," Louis says, trying to sound as normal and chipper as ever. "Well, I've got a pen, so tell me now?"

"Liam Payne and Zayn Malik," Harry says, and offers nothing more as Louis writes them down on his notepad.

"Fantastic," Louis says, "we'll have the tickets waiting on them at will call whenever they get there."

"Good," Harry says, and Louis wonders when they got back down to one-syllable answers.

"I'll be working that night, I'll be at the will call booth, so if they need anything, other than their tickets, they can just find me," Louis says, hoping he gets the hint that it's not just Liam and Zayn who can find him there if they need him.

"Swell," Harry says, and Louis wants to throw the phone, or else rewind to Monday, if Harry's going to freak out over phone sex or something. Maybe rewind a month back, because Niall's probably right, he's probably one of those Harrys with a shiny girlfriend in his Facebook picture after all and having a gay panic now, just his luck.

"Don't hesitate to call back between now and then, either, if there's anything else I can do for you," Louis says, and it just sounds like begging to his ears after it comes out, if anything.

"Right," Harry says. "Um. Goodbye, now."

"Right, goodbye," Louis says, sighing as he clicks the phone back on the receiver, because it looks like El was right about the trainwreck after all.

*

He's sitting in the theater lobby the following evening, half an hour after he's off the clock, watching the monitor from behind the concessions bar and scrolling through his cell phone contacts, trying not to stop too often at Harry's, at least. He didn't hear from Harry all day yesterday, or all day today, for that matter, and he doubts he will again, most likely, at this rate. He's not about to give up the quest for his wealthy blue-briefs-wearing soulmate, though, even if he should; he briefly considers the plausibility of tracking down Liam and Zayn tomorrow night after the show, he'll know what they look like when they pick up their tickets from him, after all. He could sit at the piano bar nursing a Manhattan after he gets off his shift and wait for them to head down to the parking garage, he could watch out the window and follow them out and corner them after he stalks them back to their apartment and ask what the chances are of recreating his phone conversation with Harry from earlier in the week in real life, if there's a girlfriend in the picture, if he's mentioned him to them at any point. It could work.

He could do that, he thinks, but then he thinks, that's a little creepy, even for your standards, Tommo.

So he sucks it up when he finally comes past Harry's number again and hits send.

It goes to voicemail, of course, he was expecting no less, but even hearing Harry's voice on the machine is a comfort; he hasn't got a fucking clue where to start when the phone beeps at him, though, so he figures he should start with the business angle and go from there, if anything's going to work.

"Hi, Haz," he says, coughing into the receiver a little, "it's me, as you've obviously gathered, if you haven't deleted me out of your phone contacts by now," he looks around to make sure there are no errant ushers or stagehands around anywhere snooping on his conversation, "not that you would've ever had any reason to have it in there in the first place, I guess. I just—wanted to thank you, for your business and all, for putting up with me over the past month to get your friends their tickets and all. That was a really nice gesture, you know. You're a good friend, Harry, they're lucky to have a friend like you, and I hope they appreciate it, because if they don't appreciate you, I really don't know what you're doing hanging around with them in the first place." He pauses, collecting up his nerve. "You deserve to be appreciated, Harry. You're—you're a really wonderful guy, and I'm glad I got to know you, just a little, even if it was over Phantom or Miss Saigon decisions. I hope your friends know that." One more deep breath. "Because I do, you know. And. I'm not sorry about Monday, even if you are. I'm not."

Well, that doesn't feel any better now that he said it, not like he was expecting it to, but it's on voicemail and there's not a damn thing he can do about it now.

"So, I hope Liam and Zayn have a wonderful time at the show tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to saying hello to them," he finishes, "and if you ever wanted to say hello too, well, you know where to find me. Call me. You know." He swallows. "Take care, Haz."

He punches the off button and starts toward the coatroom to grab his coat and head out, wondering if there'll be a voicemail on his answering machine when he gets into work in the morning.

There's not, and when there's not a call to his line by ten-fifteen, he scrolls down and deletes Harry's phone number out of his contacts.

*

By seven-ten that night, he's cranky and tired and freezing and all he wants to do is go home and curl up in a ball and drown his sorrows over one of Niall's nine thousand containers of rocky road ice cream in the freezer. He doesn't care if Niall would bite his spoon-holding hand off in the process, even.

He's cranky and tired and he's already had to avert one crisis to do a patron insisting they had floor seats when he most definitely remembers they did not from taking their ticket order by calling Paul on his home phone, which he's sure Paul is none too happy about and he'll hear about it on Monday, and to top it all off, it's blowing down what's got to be some kind of record snowfall for this time of year, and people keep opening the damned doors and snow keeps blowing into the entryway and of course, he's stuck right in the trajectory of the worst part of the draft, of course he is, and he remembers just why he hates his job in the first place.

It was only a momentary vacation for those voodoo dolls after all, sadly, it appears.

He's just about to bite the head off of the next customer who says two words more than a name to him when he catches sight of a tuft of curly hair halfway back the line that appears to be attached to a very, very attractive male body, which must be the universe's way of making the mess that has been this week up to him, at least a little, he supposes. He'll take what he can get, especially if what he can get is this fellow, who Louis can see is all wide eyes and pouty lips, as he gets closer and closer with every envelope Louis hands out. Oh, yes, he'll take what he can get, if this is the universe's consolation prize to him for screwing things up with his soulmate due to premature phone sex on the job, because the guy is spectacularly handsome and it's all Louis can do not to stare and keep his focus on the ticket-giving task at hand. He briefly wonders, if things somehow do end up working out with Harry against all odds, if Harry would consider a ménage a trios arrangement after all, because he's definitely not letting this one get out of the theater without at least a phone number in hand, judging from the way his peacoat fits his arms nice and snug and his smile curls up like a little boy's as he checks a message on his phone. Possibly the world isn't out to get Louis so much after all, even if dropping the perfect man into his lap and then making him run away is a cruel, cruel trick to get him to take notice of this fine kid rapidly approaching his window. He'll settle for second prize, if he has to, he thinks as the last person ahead of him in line steps into the lobby proper, and ducks his eyes into the ticket box down so as to keep from staring at the kid too much as he asks, "name, please?"

The guy clears his throat and hesitates for just a moment, then says, "Harry Styles," and Louis just about falls off his seat at that.

Harry beams at him when their eyes meet, and it's all Louis can do not to pull him by that scarf all the way into the will call booth straight through the window.

*

He tells Harry to wait for him to finish up his shift, since he's not attending the show and all himself, obviously, Louis would know these things, and it's all Louis can do to make it through without staring at him in the lobby as his ticket box finally dwindles down to nothing. He sees Harry wave to two other guys their age, both dressed to the nines in suits, at one point and pull them both into a hug—Liam and Zayn, he presumes, and he thanks his lucky stars because not only was he correct all along that Harry was the most handsome thing in the world, he's got drool-worthy friends, to go along with it—and then watches him stand awkwardly in the corner by the coatroom for the next fifteen minutes after he sends them off, fiddling with his pockets and paying for a drink from the concessions girl, and it's all Louis can do to think about proper alphabetical order instead of how the whiskey might taste licked off of Harry's lips secondhand. He's got a good feeling he's about to find out when he finally locks up the will call booth and saunters over to Harry, a grin on his face matching Louis' own.

"You got my message," Louis says.

"I did," Harry says quietly, swilling the last bit of his drink around in his glass, "and I'm not sorry about it, either."

"You're not?" Louis asks, taking a step closer to him and trying not to get his hopes up even at the eleventh hour here until he hears it out of Harry's mouth directly, and Harry just shakes his head and sits the drink on the bar counter.

"I was afraid I was, or that you would be, I guess," he says, "but I'm not sorry about a damn thing, Louis Tomlinson."

Louis wants to lick the whiskey glistening off of Harry's smile right off of him, so, completely lacking in the shame he's never been known to possess, he does just that, dragging him off into the coatroom by his shirtcollar and pressing him right up against the wall, the whiskey going down hot and sweet but the smile never leaving Harry's face once.

("See," Louis tells him into his collarbone as Harry's fumbling with the button on his dress slacks a few minutes later, "Niall was wrong, I knew you weren't ninety after all."

"I haven't got a clue what you're talking about," Harry laughs as he grabs to tug at Louis' zipper sloppily, so Louis just shuts him up with a kiss and a "nevermind" and gets right back to defiling his certain-to-be-after-all soulmate right there in the coatroom.)


End file.
